Chris heaved a sigh.Bugger. It had been a mad gamble, anyway. Half a plan, at best—
“You’ll have to compromise me,” she said. “Publicly.”
Well. It was not often that Chris found himself surprised. But the Toogood chit had managed to do the job. “Ruin your reputation if I did,” he said. Which would hardly serve his interests.
She ventured, with a strange note of hesitance, “Likely not so much as you might think.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s true that I have been somewhat less than circumspect,” she said tentatively, and he could almost imagine her wringing her hands as she spoke, “in my efforts to avoid an inconvenient marriage.”
“I know. I read about the pigeons.” It had been enough, likely, to make any mama of any potential suitor shake her head in consternation and suggest,perhaps not the Toogood girl, but not quite enough to see her stricken from guest lists—if only because there was the promise of good gossip with her attendance.
“Still,” she said, “when one compares our respective reputations…” She was loath to say it herself. Loath to make the suggestion, even if it was undeniably true.
In comparison to his, her reputation was blameless. A clean, fresh, spotless lily-white. To compromise her publicly would beto confirm it—and reflect much worse upon him than upon her. Perhaps she would even end up the object of pity; the poor, unfortunate lady who had been trapped into marriage with one of London’s most notorious figures. The sort of man from whom decent folk fled as if he were the very devil himself.
There was just one problem. “How am I meant to compromise you?” he asked.
“The usual way, I expect. At a ball, or a musicale, or some such event. Any function with a large number of people not particularly inclined to keep quiet about a good scandal. If you might provide me with your social calendar, I could find something suitable to which we’ve both been invited.”
She sounded so damned hopeful that he hated to disappoint her. “I haven’t got a social calendar,” he said.
“What? But how do you keep track of which events you plan to attend?”
“It’s simple enough. I don’t receive invitations.”
A pause, as if she could not quite make sense of the words. “Noinvitations?”
“Nary a one.” Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He’d received one just recently. “Except from Em and Rafe,” he said. “Some sort of charity event. She invites me every year. I’ve never attended.” It wouldn’t have been wise to do so; not when his presence was likely to detract from whatever it was she intended to accomplish with it.
“It’s a ball,” she said absently. “It’s meant to garner contributions for the children’s care, and to help the oldest of them secure positions in reputable households.” Another brief pause. “Truly—noinvitations whatsoever otherwise?”
“If your sort has one thing to their credit, it is that they know better than to invite me into their homes.” It didn’t matter, however. He was there anyway, in the servants he paid for information. Once, he’d made use of that information in theservice of the country—but there was not much use in a spy who had been revealed for what he was. Not much use in a spy whose knee had been brutalized, who moved at a hobble even with a cane to his aid.
“I can hardly credit it,” she said. “Together, you and Lord Rafe brought down a traitor within the Home Office. By all rights, you ought to be in high demand.”
“Rafe has got a noble family name to his credit. I’m a bastard.” Worse even than only a bastard; a wealthy one that had infiltrated their territory. Without sense enough, decorum enough, to remain in the gutters in which they fancied he belonged. “There’s a chance—a halfway decent one at least—that I’ll drag you down with me.” Just as he had feared doing to Em. “You must decide how much a convenient marriage worth to you.”
This time, there wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation. “Everything,” she whispered, as if the very word were a vow in and of itself. “It’s wortheverything.”
Chapter Four
To share, or not to share? Phoebe sipped her tea and mulled it over in her head. She was, in a manner of speaking, engaged to be married. Or at least she would be in short order. Tomorrow night, if all went to plan.
She should tell her friends, at least. There was no better time than now, in the privacy of Emma’s sitting room, during tea. Their first tea with all of them together since Diana had been delivered of a son, Jacob, early last month. It was the best, most convenient time, surely. They would understand.
“You’ll be relieved to learn, naturally,” Emma said to Phoebe as she poured herself a fresh cup, “that there won’t be a single bachelor present at my ball tomorrow evening.”
By that, Phoebe assumed that Emma’s brother had not yet gotten round to accepting the invitation he’d received. But he would. He had to.
“Really?” Lydia inquired. “How did you manage that?”
“I find that bachelors willing to attend such things grow increasingly rare,” Emma said. “Largely, it’s the wives that compel it—the bachelors prefer to give of their coin instead of their time.”
Diana laid a hand upon Phoebe’s shoulder. “And if there happens to be a bachelor that slips through—well, I’m certain wecan invent some sort of excuse for you.”
“A torn slipper ribbon,” Emma suggested.
